


Hook, Line, and Sinker

by devilsalwayscry



Series: Post-DMCV Fix It Fics [3]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Vergil (Devil May Cry), Emotional Constipation, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Rough Kissing, Top Dante (Devil May Cry), Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsalwayscry/pseuds/devilsalwayscry
Summary: He’s missed him so badly, has dedicated the last twenty years of his life to learning how to keep on living through the pain and the mourning, and Vergil is just oblivious to it. He doesn’t understand why Dante would even mourn him to begin with, has always been selfish, wrapped up in his self-sacrificing bullshit. The tension makes Dante feel wound up so tight he thinks he might snap in half.(Dante third person POV, can be read alone but does follow the first two in this series. Dante and Vergil continue down the long, difficult path of dealing with their feelings and reconciling their past. The porn is secondary to the feelings, but there is definitely a good serving of both.)





	Hook, Line, and Sinker

**Author's Note:**

> First things first: Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos, I love them all!!
> 
> Secondly, shout out to the Spardacest discord server, which is full of pretty cool and wildly talented folx who inspire the hell out of me every day.
> 
> Thirdly, uh. This is 3 pages of setup followed by 10 pages of kissing and porn with a huge heaping helping of feelings, and I'm sorry, but also I'm not. Please enjoy!

"So, here we are. Home sweet home," Dante says as they step onto the pavement in front of the shop, gesturing with his arms spread as if he's displaying his entire life's work for Vergil to see. Which, he supposes, he sort of is—the shop's the only thing he's really done on his own, and he's proud of it, even if it's a little rough around the edges.

The Devil May Cry looks about as good as it did when he left it—which is to say, in desperate need of some brick repairs, a new set of stairs, and, huh, when did that back window get cracked? It may not much to look at, but as Dante and Vergil walk up to it, he feels a weird sense of pride about the place, anyway. He's expecting some kind of comment from his twin about the tackiness or rundown nature of the place, but Vergil's not biting. Instead, he just watches Dante go about fishing the spare key out of the crack between the stairs and the brick wall, face unreadable.

They'd spent a few hours with Nero and Kyrie, meeting the kids and dealing with the inevitable questions that surround the still new revelation that they're family. Nero had given them the stink eye throughout the night, and it wasn't until they were about to leave that he'd even acknowledged their presence again by chucking V's book straight at Vergil's head as they walked out of the door. He'd mumbled something about "not needing it any more" that Dante didn't really understand before stomping his way back into the house, door slammed behind him. Vergil had been sulking about it ever since, and every time Dante had tried to ask him for details, Vergil had either ignored him or changed the subject.

If Vergil's going to be moody about it, then fine, whatever. That isn't really anything new, at least not that Dante can remember—even as children his twin had been prone to a little brooding here and there, often to Dante's immense frustration. 

Key in hand, Dante loops around the stairs and up to the front door, feeling a bit anxious about letting Vergil inside. The place is undoubtedly going to be a mess, and for some reason that makes him feel a bit self-conscious. Letting Vergil in to his house is strangely more intimate and trusting than anything else so far, which is probably pretty absurd, considering they've slept in the same room and traveled through Hell together.

It's the little things, he supposes. He opens the door and steps inside, dropping the key on the hook by the front door as he does. He flips a light-switch experimentally, breathes a sigh of relief when the overhead bulbs flicker and crackle, then turn on, spilling dim yellow light through the room. Looks like the ladies have been paying the bills in his absence, at least. 

The place isn't as big of a mess as he's expecting, either; everything's covered in a film of dust, sure, but other than that it's surprisingly free of clutter. Vergil walks in after him, looking around the room with an arched brow, and Dante thinks, _ right, this isn't his first time here _ . Thinking about V and Vergil as the same person is strange, even though it had been obvious to Dante from the get-go. He wonders what Vergil remembers from being V—their first conversation? When he'd found Dante under the Qliphoth and given him the Sparda? The logistics of splitting oneself into two separate entities makes Dante's head spin, and he adds it to the list of "shit we'll probably have to work out."

He circles around his desk, dropping into the chair with a deep sigh. Home sweet home. It ain't much, but god, it's good to be back. He leans forward and grabs the nearest stack of papers, flipping through them to see if there's anything that needs his immediate attention. Bills, delinquency notices—ah, the water was shut off last month, he'll have to get that figured out first—and a note from Trish and Lady that reads "out on a job, be back in a few weeks  ♥ ". He wonders when they wrote that, if they've just been leaving it here for the past six months for whenever he finally showed back up again.

He doesn't notice Vergil circling around the desk until he's right next to him and he hears the little clipped "hm" from his twin. Dante looks up at and follows his gaze back down to the desk and the small pile of mementos Dante keeps there. Ah, right.

"Pretty good picture, huh?" He says idly, like it's not a big deal. Vergil doesn't respond, but he does reach out, picking up the photo of Eva to look at it up close. Dante lets him have this, pretends like he's not aware of the pained expression on his brother's face, the gentle, delicate way he touches the glass of the frame with his fingertip.

"Yes, it is," Vergil says, voice barely above a whisper. Dante picks up another stack of papers and pretends to devote his full attention to sorting through them; there's nothing interesting there, and it's all old, but he knows what Vergil's thinking about, wants to give him a moment to just... reflect, he supposes. His brother lets out another small noise, something a bit like a sigh, and he returns the picture frame to exactly where he found it.

"What’s this?" Dante snaps his attention back to Vergil, to the glove in his hand, and something curls in his stomach, a bit like anxiety and embarrassment combined. Vergil is pressing his fingers to the thin, perfect slice through the center, tracing the bloodstains that are barely visible on the faded leather with slow precision.

"Okay, enough being nosy," Dante says, taking the glove from Vergil and returning it to its rightful place next to their mother's portrait. He clears his throat and gets to his feet, separating Vergil from the desk. His twin has a look on his face like he's not really sure what to think about the revelation that Dante's been keeping the glove, his one physical reminder of Vergil, next to their mother's portrait on his desk.

"Don't look at me like that," Dante says, pushing past him to hang his coat on the rack behind his desk, looking for some way to keep himself busy. He strips off his jacket, hangs it up and starts peeling off his gloves before Vergil speaks again:

"Why?"

The question makes anger flare bright inside of his chest—he can't help it. Frustration roils hot in his stomach and he clenches his hands into fists at his side to stop himself from doing something he'll regret later. He keeps his back turned to Vergil, can't stand to look at the expression he's making, like he's  _ shocked _ that Dante, his brother, his  _ twin _ , would have the audacity to mourn him.

"You really just don't get it, do you? What, did you think I'd just forget about you? It doesn't work that way," Dante says, throwing the gloves down on the table behind his desk before turning around to face Vergil again. His brother is still watching him, eyes narrowed, like he doesn't trust him or something, and it’s  _ so frustrating _ , because Dante doesn’t get it. What Vergil wants from him is a mystery he’s not sure he can solve. He’s sure it’s there, somewhere between the hatred and the longing and the history between them, but he feels lost, like he’s not even sure how to read Vergil any more.

He’s missed him so badly, has dedicated the last twenty years of his life to learning how to keep on living through the pain and the mourning, and Vergil is just oblivious to it. He doesn’t understand why Dante would even mourn him to begin with, has always been selfish in his emotions and self-sacrificing bullshit. The tension makes Dante feel wound up so tight he thinks he might snap in half.   


And he does, a little: something snaps inside him—the tension, the exhaustion, the want smash together in his brain until he’s left reeling, feeling like he’s going to jump out of his skin. Dante anchors himself with his hands on either side of Vergil’s face, fingers splayed, and he crushes his mouth against his. The unexpected force of it makes them stumble, and Dante has to catch himself against the desk with his knee to keep from toppling sideways. Vergil’s hand rests on Dante’s waist, his touch light as a feather, and the movement brings their chests together. He can feel Vergil’s heart pounding against his own, matched in time to his; can feel the catch of his breath as Dante steals it away. They fit together perfectly, even though Vergil stands there stiffly beneath his touch, unmoving in his uncertainty. 

His hesitation doesn’t deter him—he’s started this and now that he has Vergil in his grasp, warm and firm beneath his touch, it’s like instincts just take over. He sinks his teeth into Vergil’s bottom lip, drags his nails down Vergil’s scalp and neck, and it’s not enough, he wants to dig his claws and teeth into him, pull him apart piece by piece and make him  _ understand  _ how badly Dante’s missed him, and this, and his touch. 

The metallic tang of blood fills his mouth as he breaks through skin, shockingly distinct in the haze of his emotions. The sharpness of it snaps him to his senses, and he pulls back, breathless and shaking. Blood wells up in the bite mark Dante’s left behind, dark against Vergil’s pale skin, and he watches it with distant fascination as it slowly trickles down his chin.

_ Shit. _

He’s off him and putting distance between them before Vergil has a chance to move, afraid to look back for a response to his actions. Want thrums through his veins, making his skin tingle with heat and desire, and he’s panting, chest heaving as he gasps for air. He needs to get out, get away from this for a minute or he’s going to go nuts. 

Dante keeps his eyes trained on the floor opposite of Vergil as he moves through the room—locking the door, flipping off lights, going about the usual mundane tasks of closing up shop. It brings back some normalcy, makes him feel more human, even as his heart races and something in the back of his mind screams  _ more more MO— _

“It’s late. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs, just don’t mind the boxes, and plenty of clothes if you want to change into something more comfortable,” Dante says when he’s finally able to find his voice again; it comes out raw and rough, thick with emotion he's trying desperately not to let overcome him. There's a noise from the other side of the room, the sound of the chair being pushed out of his way, and Vergil's walking toward Dante. He panics, steps around him and makes for the back room.

"Dante—"

"I should get caught up on work, you know, make sure we can keep the lights on." He's resolutely not looking at Vergil as he walks, desperate to put some space between them. The room is stifling and he's flushed with embarrassment and regret, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. This thing between them is complex and confusing and Dante needs time to sort things out, try to make some sense of how he's feeling. Vergil’s hesitation, the stiffness of him beneath his touch feels like a brick wall, a barrier that Dante’s run up against and isn’t sure how to surpass. He needs time to calm himself down before he chases Vergil off or something.

Vergil's hand brushes his as he passes, fingers reaching for Dante's wrist. He flinches back, waves his brother off with what he hopes is a casual gesture. The back room is within reach and Dante thinks,  _ if I can just get there, I can _ —

The door is locked, the key out of reach. Shit.

" _ Dante _ ." The anger's obvious in his voice now, anger and confusion and maybe just a tiny bit of hurt, and Dante drops his forehead against the door with a soft "thunk" as Vergil steps up behind him.

"... it’s been a long day,” Dante says, because it’s all he can think to say, and it’s not  _ wrong,  _ exactly. Vergil hums in response, and there’s a clatter as he sits the Yamato and his book down on the desk, and Dante stiffens, anticipating the hands on his shoulders before Vergil even touches him. When he does, it’s gentle, a soft, guiding hand as he turns Dante to face him, his back pressed against the door.

Up close, nearly nose to nose, Dante can see the way that concern has softened the lines in his brother’s face, smoothed out the edges and left behind something almost… gentle. Vergil holds Dante at arm’s length, looking into his eyes with an intensity that is so uniquely  _ Vergil _ , and there’s a moment where they linger like that, just looking at each other, before Vergil pulls Dante against his chest and wraps his arms around him. His left arm is looped around Dante’s shoulders, the other around his waist, and all Dante can think is:  _ oh, this is nice _ . 

Hesitation gives way to acceptance in a matter of seconds and Dante’s clinging to him, desperate for the contact, unable to believe that this is happening but unwilling to let the moment pass, either. He balls his fists in Vergil’s coat and clings like his life depends on it, memorizing the feeling of his twin in his arms, pressed against his chest. It’s familiar and new at the same time—it’s been so long since they’ve touched, since he’s given in to this kind of embrace, and he can feel the tension that’s been keeping him going for the past twenty years slowly, finally, begin to loosen.

“I’m sorry,” Vergil says, voice soft, a whisper into Dante’s hair. Dante laughs and drops his forehead against Vergil’s shoulder, tightens his grip around his twin’s torso. Those are two words he never thought he’d hear his brother say; an admission, an acknowledgement of weakness and failure, and it’s refreshing, in a way. Makes him feel like maybe this thing can stick this time, and hope floods through him, makes his chest and face feel warm.  

“Gotta be honest, Verg, I never really expected you to apologize,” Dante starts, pressing his face into Vergil’s shoulder and the crook of his neck. “You’re gonna spoil me at this rate. I’m gonna start expecting this treatment all the time, y’know.” His plea is unspoken between them, but he suspects Vergil hears it, somewhere between the words he does say:  _ Don’t you dare leave me again. _

Vergil’s laugh is the most wonderful thing Dante’s heard in years: short and quiet, but earnest, not mocking or taunting but real, honest emotion. Butterflies erupt in his stomach at the sound and he clings tighter, afraid that if he lets go Vergil will up and disappear.

“I know.” He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t really need to—Dante gets it. They cling to each other, and Dante thinks,  _ god, I’ve missed this _ . Having Vergil here puts him to ease in a way he hasn’t been since Vergil left him all those years ago. It feels so good to have him, someone who knows what he’s been through, who knows what goes on inside his head and his heart—the other half of him, finally returned. 

Dante buries his face into Vergil’s coat and whispers: “I’ve missed you.”

“I can see that,” Vergil says, and it’s such a him response, mocking but somehow still sincere, that Dante feels the impulse to punch him for it. If it weren’t for how nice the hug feels he definitely would—the snarky bastard deserves it. “I missed you, too.”

“Okay, now you’re just freaking me out,” Dante says, pulling free from Vergil’s grip to inspect his brother’s face. “You  _ are  _ Vergil, right?”

He gets an eye roll in response, and Vergil pries himself from Dante’s hands and clears his throat like he’s  _ embarrassed _ or something. Splitting himself in half has clearly had some unexpected consequences of self-discovery, and as much as Dante’s loving the attention it, he still isn’t sure what to make of it, either.

Despite his unease, he does appreciate the gesture. Vergil has always had to make a conscious effort to be a bit more emotional when it came to Dante, something that he knows doesn’t come easy to his twin. Where Dante is clingy, Vergil is withdrawn, craving the attention but never wanting to actually express his desire for affection. It used to be maddening when they were younger, especially in the years leading up to Vergil leaving him. They’d fought over it nearly as much as they’d fought over Vergil’s obsession.

Dante shakes his head and clears the memories from his mind with an uneven breath. A fresh start, that’s what they have now. If Vergil is committed to making amends, then Dante will accept that—would accept Vergil anyway, if he’s being honest, just so long as he stayed by Dante’s side this time.

An awkward silence has fallen between them, Dante lost in his thoughts, Vergil unsure what to do with himself. They stand there, directionless and anxious, unsure how to exist together again, and this time it’s Vergil who breaks the tension, spurs them into action: he steps forward, just a little, and touches his mouth to Dante’s, gentle and soft.

It’s an acceptance and an invitation all at once, and Dante’s on him in a heartbeat, tangling his fingers in Vergil’s hair and pulling, sinking his teeth into Vergil’s lip in desperate fervor. Twenty years is so goddamn long he can barely stand it, can barely keep his head on straight as he claws at Vergil’s scalp and shoves his tongue in his mouth, desperate for the taste and the feel of him. 

They stumble back against the office door and Dante’s head hits it with a  _ thump,  _ Vergil’s hands on his back and their legs awkwardly tangled together. It snaps him back into focus and he pulls back, separates from Vergil long enough to gasp for air and try to clear his head. 

“Right desk draw, second down, there’s a key… for the, uh, door.” It’s a half coherent, half finished thought, the rest lost somewhere in the expanse of flesh between Vergil’s jawline and collarbone, which Dante attacks with his teeth and tongue in reverence. It’s incredible how distracting Vergil is, how badly his want and longing cloud his judgment and make his vision swim when he touches him. 

Vergil pries himself away from Dante’s grip and he whines, like a part of him has been torn away—in a distant part of his brain he knows it’s pathetic, the way his hand reflexively reaches for Vergil even though he’s still so close he can feel the warmth coming off of him. All it’s taken is a kiss back, a simple, small sign of returned affection and Dante’s falling apart, heart pounding in his chest in a steady and frantic rhythm. 

_ We’re a wreck _ , he thinks, even as Vergil hands him the key and he turns to let them into the back office. His hands probe at Dante’s hips while he works to open the door, his mouth pressing small and delicate kisses to the back of his neck and shoulders and  _ holy shit, it’s distracting _ . Dante gets the door open with some effort, pushes into the room, turns, and grabs Vergil, throwing his arms around his neck and dragging him back into a heated kiss.

They’ve always been like this: Dante frantic and desperate in his need for Vergil’s affection, Vergil calm and restrained, slow and methodical even in this. It’s a front, and Dante knows it—he’s seen his mask slip before, his composure crack under pressure. 

If he has his way, he’ll get Vergil to that point again today. He grabs for Vergil’s coat and peels it off his shoulders before tossing it aimlessly to the side as they stumble, directionless, into the center of the room. 

Dante comes up for air, presses his forehead against Vergil’s and just  _ breaths.  _ He locks eyes with Vergil and he’s staring at him, gaze intense and lips parted as he tries to catch his breath. The way he examines Dante’s face, as if he is trying to memorize every inch of it, every new small detail that he doesn’t recognize, makes his hair stand on end. Under that gaze he feels exposed—his barriers don’t work here, his mask of indifference weak to Vergil’s full and complete understanding of him. There’s a streak of blood on Vergil’s lower lip, and Dante’s not even sure whose it is at this point, but he licks it off all the same, hands moving in soothing circles on Vergil’s back, trying to get away from that intense stare. 

“You okay?” Vergil laughs, a deep, husky noise that makes Dante’s stomach feel like its curling in on itself and brings Dante’s attention to the increasing tightness in his jeans.

“Dante, do me a favor,” Vergil says, sliding his hands up Dante’s back and over his shoulders to cup his face, thumbs rubbing across his cheekbones. Dante melts into the touch and turns his face to press a kiss to Vergil’s hand. “Stop asking me that.”  

Dante nips at his palm, gets a mouth full of gross leather glove for his trouble, abandons his pursuit to bite Vergil to instead respond: “Fine. But only if you really  _ are _ —”

They’re kissing again before he can finish the thought, and he drops it, figuring that’s as good a sign as any that they’re okay, at least for now. He loops an arm around Vergil’s neck and guides him slowly backward toward the lounge chair Dante keeps back here. It’s technically his bedroom, too, though he has a feeling Vergil would judge him if he found that out. The empty bottles of whisky are at least against the far wall, away from their stumbling path through the room, and he doesn’t look like a complete disaster. Small blessings.

Using his free hand he unzips Vergil’s vest as he turns them around in a small half circle so the backs of Vergil’s knees are bumping against the chair. With another quick nip of teeth he breaks away from the kiss, stepping back for a minute to admire his handiwork.

Vergil is properly disheveled at this point, hair starting to fall down in wisps at his temples, face and neck flushed bright red. It sends a thrill down Dante’s spine—he loves that he can have this effect, break through Vergil’s icy and impassive exterior to get a rise out of him. It is a thing uniquely his, a side of Vergil reserved only for him, and he cherishes it, the knowledge that he owns this, that he still has this power over him even after all these years and all they’ve been through. He slips his hands into Vergil’s vest, traces the ridges of Vergil’s ribs with his fingertips and thumbs, before spreading his hands over his twin’s chest. He brushes his thumbs over Vergil’s nipples and gets a sharp little hiss, the briefest crack in Vergil’s stoic exterior, in response.

“Damn, you’re still so easy to rile up,” Dante says, leaning in to press a kiss against Vergil’s chest, right over his heart. He bares his teeth against his brother’s skin and bites until he can taste blood, enjoying the way Vergil tugs at his hair just this side of too hard in response. He leaves perfect crescent marks of his fangs behind that well with blood, bright red against Vergil’s skin, and though they heal quickly he takes delight in the knowledge that he made them. With his thumb he smears the blood in a straight line, down and over his nipple, a bright red streak across his chest like war paint, glittering in the dim light. He grins when Vergil bats his hands away in annoyance.

This is the way it has always been with them: Dante pushing limits, Vergil keeping him in check. With a quick shove he knocks Vergil down into the chair, drops to his knees in front of his twin and presses his palm against the crotch of his pants. It earns him a desperate groan and he can feel the length of Vergil, already hard against his touch, twitch under his hand in response. Dante leans forward and wedges himself between Vergil’s knees, pinning his hand against him so he can press a kiss to Vergil’s navel.

Whatever hesitation Vergil was feeling has melted away, worn down by the onslaught of Dante’s fingers and mouth against his skin, warm and pressing and persistent. He has no patience for Dante’s aimless kisses and bites, and he fists his hands in Dante’s hair and pushes his face down against his crotch, and Dante laughs, presses a kiss with slightly parted lips to the bulge in Vergil’s pants. Vergil jerks under him, just a little, and Dante’s giddy with the thrill it sends through him to know he’s in control here.

He doesn’t need any more of an invitation than that, didn’t really even need one to begin with, and he unzips Vergil’s pants and pulls his dick free in one fluid, practiced motion. He leans down, lets his lips brush against the tip of it to earn himself another little whine of want. It takes all the restraint Dante can muster to keep moving slowly, peppering Vergil’s hips with small kisses while he strokes him with one hand and pulls his pants down with the other. Vergil bucks into his touch and Dante bites him on the hip, hard enough to draw blood, in response.

It earns him a deep growl, something low and feral and a touch inhuman. It’s a sound that makes his blood boil hot with need, with the thrill of making Vergil come apart at the seams under his hands, and he answers it in kind, a low, deep sound in the back of his throat. 

“Just tell me if you want me to stop,” Dante says, tilting his head against Vergil’s leg and looking up at him through half-closed eyes. His face is flushed and his lips are parted, his hands in Dante’s hair, and  _ god, _ it’s a look he could get used to.

“Dante…” It’s a warning and a command and, Dante thinks, a bit of a plea all rolled into one word: his name on Vergil’s lips, the best sound he’s ever heard. He takes Vergil’s cock in his mouth and relishes in the way his twin pushes up to meet him, words giving way to formless sounds and a deep, steady moan. He takes his time, savoring it—the taste of him, the way Vergil hunches forward, hands tight on Dante’s head, guiding him and setting the pace. 

When Vergil cums it’s with a sharp intake of breath and a shudder that Dante feels deep in his bones. He clutches Vergil’s hips, digs his fingers and nails in for leverage, and rides out Vergil’s orgasm with gusto and enthusiasm, pulling away only when he feels him lean back in the chair and the tension eases out of his limbs. Dante looks up at Vergil and grins, knows from the way his mouth feels raw and numb that he must look obscene. He makes a show of swallowing and licking his lips when Vergil’s eyes open again and he gets a deep, throaty groan to reward his efforts.

“You are disgusting,” Vergil says, even as he bends forward, takes Dante’s face in his hands, and shoves his tongue in Dante’s mouth, thick with the salty, musky taste of him. Dante’s so hard that he thinks he might lose control from the kiss alone, and Vergil knows it—he repositions his leg so his foot is between Dante’s knees, slips it under his crotch and presses up. The top of his boot and ankle push up against Dante’s dick from beneath and he can’t help the needy moan he makes in response.

It’s embarrassing how desperately he grinds down into that touch, earning him a pleased smirk. Vergil curls his fingers around Dante’s chin and slips his thumb between his lips, presses down against his tongue while he pushes his foot up against his dick and it’s nearly enough to make Dante cum right there, desperately grinding against his fucking foot, of all things, on his knees in the back of his own shop. Vergil makes him feel needy and exposed in a way no one else can, and god, it feels so good to be able to just give in to that feeling again, lose himself in his lust and baser instincts without worry. 

“Who’s easy to rile up?” Vergil says, tone mocking and voice low; Dante bites his thumb for the remark, a quick nip, and Vergil digs his fingers into Dante’s chin painfully hard in response before pulling his hand away. The separation is too much, and Dante rises on his knees and loops his arms around Vergil’s neck, working a line down his jaw with sharp little kisses.

“Let me fuck you,” Dante says, and it’s crude, and he knows Vergil hates it, hates the way he says it raw and quiet and right in his ear, but god, he wants it  _ so bad _ . He licks a messy, wet line from the base of Vergil’s jaw and down his neck before settling into the perfect curve where Vergil’s throat meets his collarbone. It’s a shame any mark he leaves on Vergil’s flesh will heal before he can truly appreciate his handiwork, but he leaves one anyway, bites and sucks on the pale skin until he knows a bruise has blossomed underneath.

“Do you have to be so vulgar?” Vergil says, like he’s long-suffering from the attention, and Dante just chuckles—it’s missing some of his usual bite when Vergil’s voice is so soft and eager, his face flushed with the lingering excitement of his orgasm. Dante shakily gets to his feet and fumbles with his belt with fingers that suddenly won’t cooperate with him. Vergil makes a  _ tsk _ noise with his tongue as he grabs Dante’s hands, moves them out of the way and removes Dante’s belt for him with a quick flick of his wrist. He drops it to the side with one hand and begins unzipping and stripping Dante’s jeans with the other. It’s an awkward maneuvre—he trips his way out of his pants and shoes, has to catch himself with a hand on Vergil’s shoulder, and even though it’s decidedly  _ not _ sexy in any way he still feels his stomach drop at the hungry look Vergil’s giving him now that he’s naked from the waist down. 

Dante straightens out and extends a hand to his brother, pulling him to his feet. There’s a bed in the corner of the room, covered in clothes and a box of paperwork, and Dante shoves everything to the floor in a rush, feeling self-conscious about his mess. He doesn’t sleep in the bed back here often, spends most of his nights passed out at his desk or in the armchair, and if Vergil finds it odd that his bed is so obviously unused, he at least doesn’t question it, not right now. 

He drags Vergil to the bed, shoves him down and Vergil reaches up and tangles his hand into the mess of Dante’s hair, dragging him down with him. It hurts, burns his scalp and makes his eyes water from the pain, and god, that’s good, too, the pain coupled with the way Vergil’s looking at him with this complicated expression of desire and anticipation. Dante makes a show of stripping off Vergil’s boots and his leather pants, pressing kisses and sinking his teeth in to the delicate skin of his inner thighs as he goes. It earns him the prize he so desperately wants—Vergil’s sharp intake of breath with each bite is his greatest motivator. He would do anything to hear the way his twin loses control, his composure slipping just a little bit more with each quiet gasp.

There’s a bottle of lube shoved between the mattress and the wall and he has to lean over Vergil to retrieve it—he slides his hands up the front of Dante’s henley when he does, his fingers exploring every inch of his chest and ribs and back. It’s distracting in the best possible way, and he doesn’t resist when Vergil pulls the shirt over his head, leaving him fully naked and exposed.

He watches Vergil’s eyes roam up and down his body in time with his fingers, finding all the things that have changed in the past twenty years, cataloging them in that precise, exact way of his as Dante pops open the tube of lube and dumps some unceremoniously into his hand. Watching Vergil watch him, eyes locked with his and lips parted as Dante gently slips a finger into him, makes Dante’s chest swell with longing until he, too, is breathless, panting quietly in time with his twin. Vergil hooks a leg around Dante’s waist to give him better access and  _ growls _ , a carnal, feral noise that reverberates down Dante’s spine, and it makes him see white, leaves him clinging to Vergil for dear life.

“I love you.” 

He blurts it out without thinking, his thoughts a confused jumble of words and feelings and emotions too complicated for him to work out here and now, not when he’s so wrapped up in Vergil’s embrace. Now that he’s said it, he can’t remember if it's something they’ve ever actually put words to before, and he wonders for a moment if it will make Vergil angry with him, this voicing of his feelings, so raw and exposed. He means it, even if it does make Vergil angry, means it in so many different ways that those three simple words don’t even do it justice at this point. 

There’s a silence between them in the wake of his confession, filled only with the sound of their breathing and the wet, profane noise of Dante’s fingers inside of Vergil. Dante hides his embarrassment behind his actions—his hand on his own cock, pulling Vergil close, hooking his hands behind Vergil’s knees so he can position him better—the deep, quiet groan he pries out of Vergil’s throat as he pushes slow and steady inside of him.

As he begins rocking forward, giving in to instinct and desire and all of the things he shouldn’t want, Vergil’s response is so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it beneath his own ragged breathing, the wet, slick sound of their sex: “And I, you.”

It’s poetic and stupid and barely a love confession of any kind and yet it is enough to tip Dante over the edge and he cums, his orgasm rippling through him like a wave. He has to plant a hand on Vergil’s chest to keep himself upright as he loses himself inside of his twin, breathing coming in ragged gasps that almost—almost sound like sobs, if he’s being honest.

With his orgasm passed, he pulls himself out of Vergil and collapses on top of him, breathless and reeling. Vergil wraps his arms around Dante and holds him against his chest, burying his face in his sweat-slicked hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Holy shit,” Dante says, when he can finally find his voice again, although it’s not the most eloquent he could be given the situation. With Vergil beneath him, the feeling of being inside of him still fresh on his mind, he finds he can’t think of anything else  _ to  _ say. There is a twenty year gap between them that feels like it has closed just a tiny bit more, filled with their passion for each other, their shared confession. It is a little like having a part of him returned that he’s tried very, very hard not to think about being missing—the other half of him, the other part of his soul reconnected to his through their mutual touch and their words.

“Are you… crying on me?” Vergil asks it in a way that sounds both concerned and amused at the same time, and Dante reaches up, touches his fingers to his eyes, and laughs. He hadn’t even realized. 

“Huh. Guess so,” he says, and he turns his head so he can press a kiss to Vergil’s collarbone, tasting the salty wetness of the tears he’s left behind. “What can I say, I’m just that good at sex.”

“If you say so,” Vergil responds, unconvinced but leaving Dante to his emotions either way, taking the deflection for what it is. There’s no need to talk about it right now, not really, Dante thinks, as he climbs into the bed and pulls Vergil up with him, then lies down next to him, his back to Vergil’s chest and his twin’s arm draped over his hip. They cuddle against each other and even though he knows they’ll need to get up sooner rather than later to clean up the mess they’ve left between them, that’s okay, too. He wants to take his time with this, savor it as much as possible. 

For once, they have plenty of time.


End file.
